


My Brother's Keeper

by orphan_account



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: 100 Themes Challenge, Brothers, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-14
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-02-25 10:00:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2617742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two brothers, the twin sons of Sparda. They shared blood, but ideologies had them warring against each other. For Dante, it was heartbreaking. For Vergil, it was necessary. So Dante was glad, and sad, when his brother died. It meant that the heartbreak was no longer. Twelve years later... Well, let's just say Dante was wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> Hello. So, as an explanation for this stories existence and conception was that I've tried multiple times before to complete and one-hundred theme challenge, but I've never succeeded. I thought I'd try again, but this time with Devil May Cry because my fandoms tastes are changing. So here we go.

It started with one man. No, he wasn't a man. He was a demon. He was the demon Sparda, though he was not like his demon brethren. He was good. He fought against his brethren for the beings they squashed beneath their power: the humans. And one frightful eve, he sealed the gateway between the worlds, the Temen-Ni-Gru. His power diminished, he found himself among the humans, and he found himself happy.

There was a woman. Her name was Eva. Blonde hair, blues eyes, she was beautiful, kind, and loving. And Sparda loved her. They settled down, in a big house with a nice yard. They were secluded yes, but they were happy and together.

Eva found herself with child not long after that. The two were quite excited. They decided upon the name Dante for their son, for Sparda was sure it was son. Eva said if it was a girl, it would be Beatrice. He had smiled at her and said "Hell, Purgatory, and Heaven, for sure it will." She knitted booties and sweaters and he constructed the nursery

They child came, or the children is more accurate. Twins. Sparda was quite surprised by this. He hadn't thought of that, hadn't heard a second heartbeat. He was there though, holding one boy while Eva held another boy. They named the first one Vergil, and the second Dante.

Five minutes out of the womb and the new parents could already tell the personalities of the children. Dante was grabby, already smiling and giggling. He was noisy too. Vergil was the opposite. He was silent and slept more than anything. It worried the two parents, but the doctor said that was just how he was, that there wasn't any concern.

Of course there was concern as the two boys grew up. Dante was friendly and warm. Vergil was reclusive and cold. Sparda took Dante to town to play with the other children while Eva watched over Vergil as he read. And when the two were in the same room, now there was more than concern there. Vergil dropped his calm demeanor and taunted his brother. Dante attacked his brother in return, throwing insults along with his fists. The two parents simply didn't understand.

These were minor concerns in the long run. Demons began to appear once more, on what had been a peaceful, demon-free planet. Sparda found himself gone longer and longer from his home, his wife, and his children. One mission had him away for over a year. When he returned, his home was ruins, he wife's corpse rotting on the floor, and his children nowhere to be seen. His screams sounded into the night, loud and sad.

Vengeance was first on his mind, but he quickly snapped himself from that. Dante, Vergil, that was what he needed to focus on. Maybe they were still alive. An old man could only hope. So he looked. Far and wide. He crossed continents in his search, but neither child appeared. As time passed, he sighed to himself and said they were dead. It was the only thing that he could do to put his heart and mind to rest. After that heartbreaking realization, he turned back to vengeance.

It had to be Mundus. When Sparda still acted the part of a demon, the two were like brothers. So when Sparda switched sides, Mundus felt the worst betrayal. He'd sealed Mundus along with the rest of the demons, but other demons were appearing so it was only reasonable that so had Mundus. Sure, other demons hated him, but he was certain Mundus was behind this. So he set off with vengeance in mind.

That was last ever known of Sparda. It was safe to say he was dead, and that was what most assumed. Even his sons.

Yes, both Dante and Vergil had survived, though at first both believed the other dead. Vergil soon came to see the truth, to realize that in fact Dante was quite alive, though that wasn't quite the pleasant realization one would assume it would be. Hatred was all Vergil had felt for his brother. Love and family? Those were human ideas. He might've been half human by blood, but he wholly embraced his demon side, not his human.

Dante did not come to realize the fact his brother was alive until much after Vergil had realized so. In fact, it wasn't even until Vergil showed up on their eighteenth birthday and made an attempt on his brother's life.

Dante barely survived.

While Dante had merely survived over the years, fighting the demons that came after him because he was the son of Sparda, and living a drifter's life, his brother had grown strong. Vergil had made it his goal in life to be strong, to be as strong as their father once was, if not stronger. He wanted power. No, he  _needed_ power. He'd become not only quite strong, but quite the swordsman as well, wielding his father's blade Yamato.

After the fight, the two brothers didn't see each other again for another year. This time though, it wasn't Vergil wishing death upon his mirror. Instead, he had risen Temen-Ni-Gru, the tower his father sealed, the gateway between hell and earth.

One could look at it as Vergil was evil and Dante was good, and to some extent, they would be right. It was more complex than that though. Vergil craved power. He wanted to be strong. "Might is everything," he had said, and he truly believed that. There was no right and wrong in his eyes, no good and evil, there was just power. He had his ideal way of acting, but there was no line he wouldn't cross for power. He wasn't evil, he was just greedy.

Vergil raised Temen-Ni-Gru with the help of Arkham, a man who killed his own wife to become a demon, and was ready to sacrifice his daughter to become even stronger. Dante of course, went to stop them, and with the help of woman with a red and blue eye he dubbed Lady, he did exactly that. He stopped Arkham with the help of Vergil even, though again the motive was power not good on the part of the dark twin. Lady gave the final shot that ended the monster, but down in hell two brothers fought.

One could say Dante won. He returned to earth with his mother's amulet, and an easy mind due to one less portal to hell open. One could also say Vergil lost. He walked away with more wounds, without the power he sought, and stuck in hell (though admittedly that was his own decision). But Dante lost too. He lost his brother, and unlike Vergil, he did love his brother.

Nine years later, a woman who was a dead ringer for his mother walked through his door with information regarding Mundus' location. So he followed to Mallet island where he battled demon after demon, including the demon Nelo Angelo who held the other pendant, the one that his brother had taken into hell with him. This didn't end happily either. He didn't see the pendant in time, and only one brother remained. But he killed Mundus, so that was a win, and he even gained a new ally, the dead ringer for his mother: Trish. Once a puppet of Mundus, now she fought side by side with the half-devil in the red coat.

Two years after the events on Mallet island, on another island known as Fortuna, a dark plot was revealed within a church that worshipped Sparda. There Dante met Nero, a mysterious boy with white hair like his, blue eyes like his, and the arm of a devil. He also wielded the blade once belonging to his brother: Yamato. This time the blade was not used for the pursuit of power though, but the protection of a woman. Kyrie.

And that was that.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Green and white. Imagine yourself watching the local News, and they show a clip from a helicopter flying high above the ground. Down below it was just green, with white and grey rectangles evenly placed on the mat of green. At another angle, one could see what the really. Headstones. The markers of the dead, the solemn remembrance for those that had passed, engraved names and good, yet sad, words. In the field, three figures appeared, two standing far away from the third, and the third kneeling with flowers in her arms for the grave she was at.

"Can you believe it's been a year?" asked one of the solemn, standing figures. A blue jean jacket, over a red hoodie, that in turn covered a black shirt, bottomed off with blue jeans and boots, and topped off with messy white hair. To his side was another man, one similar in appearance, but grizzled by age. Red trench coat, white hair, a little stubble.

"I can," the other man stated. "I understand the feeling though. Events like that, the ones change life… they're always there, hovering beside you. It still feels like yesterday when I was a child with a mother, father, and brother but that was a  _long_ time ago."

"It's just…" the boy trailed off, biting his lip. "The town's mostly rebuilt, people are attending services, the market's as lively as ever, and the Order's guards are everywhere in white. It's like never happened. The only time you realize it did, as when you see the demons. It seems unnatural. Like…"

The man beside him snorted. "Like you should be still grieving? Trust me kid, I've lost a lot of people, and seen a lot of people die. If I grieved for every one of them still, more people would die. You have to put it behind you and move forward. In this world, that is the only way to survive. The future is ahead, and the past is forgotten."

"Just a year ago though… Credo looked down at me for not wearing the Order's uniform, Kyrie scolding him for doing so and now… he's gone and we're at his grave." He bent his head, his fist at his side balling up. "There isn't even a body in that grave. A year ago he was breathing, living, being a prick, and now he doesn't exist."

"I know. One moment I'm the only survivor of my family, the next my brother is back, and then I'm the only survivor again. He doesn't even have a grave." Unless you counted the remains of Temen-Ni-Gru but he had long chosen not to give much about his brother to Nero. "You got remind yourself what you do have. You got Kyrie, you got me, you got Fortuna. You've got a lot. You've lost a lot too. Life goes on though. You'll lose some more, and you'll gain some more. It's just how life works."

"Yeah, I know Dante…" he bit his lip again and blinked, watching as Kyrie stood from her brother's grave. "I have lost a lot, but I still have her." A small smile slid across the younger man's face. "I've just got to focus on the fact that I love her, and that I still have her."

"There you go kid," said the older man, placing a gloved hand on the other's back as the watched the red-haired songstress known as Kyrie approach.

"Thanks for waiting," she said with a small smile, her voice soft and delicate. She looked down at her hands, clasped over her stomach, but the two men saw how her nose was reddened and the skin around her eyes remained smooth.

"There are a lot of people that don't get to say goodbye," said Dante with a knowing smile. "A lot more than those that do. You can't expect death, unless you take it into your own hands and we all know that's even worse. Be happy you had him, remember his highs, remember his words, remember his smile, remember him. It's better than regretting something you had no control of." Kyrie looked up at him and nodded, this time with a real smile. "Now let's get out of here, it's depressing."

* * *

The trio walked into Fortuna square. Around them the chatter of people and birds sounded, the scraping of wooden crates against the cobbled streets, and the burbling of the fountain in the center. A church soared above the heads of the people, it's spires imposing, but beautiful, and the chanting from the people inside whispering out into the crowd. Children ran, played, and laughed. Old men sat and talked about their nagging wives. Middle-aged women shouted at the passersby, peddling their goods.

"You really have done a lot. You wouldn't believe this place… well, what happened to it," Dante said with an appreciative smile, hands on his hips. "You know Kyrie, Nero was pointing how strange that it's only been a year already, and you know, it is kind of surprising. Life has gone on."

Nero glared at the old man, trying to decide whether his comments were sincere, or if they were taunts aimed at his reminiscing. Kyrie evidently took them at serious though, so he decided to play along, even if he wasn't quite sure.

"Yeah I know, I remember when it was all over and we looked at Fortuna and we almost abandoned the town. It was a wreck. Nero convinced us to try though, and here we are. Good as new, the Savior incident forgotten." She glanced up at Nero with a smile, grabbing onto his hand. "When we were rebuilding, some of the men thought about putting a stature of Nero up somewhere but then he was all 'What are the tourists going to think of a statue of a punk?' and they were all 'Yeah, you're right.' It was pretty funny."

The trio laughed as the continued into the market area of Fortuna, recounting tales of heroics and embarrassment. Dante recounted the tale of almost slaying a person on Halloween because of how realistic the costume had been, and Nero recounted the tale of the Halloween when he and Credo went egging houses and they accidentally egged their own house. That got Dante talking about the time when he went out egging houses when he was seven and his brother tattled on him which ended with Dante placing an egg underneath his brother's pillow.

* * *

The trio had returned to Nero and Kyrie's house, and Dante was entertaining himself with a quick nap while Kyrie and Nero took solace in the kitchen.

"You know that story Dante told us about his Halloween and revenge on his brother, was pretty funny," Kyrie said as she needed dough. "He doesn't talk much about his brother though. I wonder why." The red-haired woman began spreading tomato sauce onto the dough.

"He does mention his brother, he mentioned him in the graveyard, but that's about it. I don't even know his name or how old he was, let alone what happened." Nero reached a finger out a swiped a lick tomato sauce of the dough. "I'm pretty certain it wasn't good. He may speak fondly but I definitely get the impression that it's a touchy subject. I can tell he loved him though."

Kyrie shot Nero a glare, sighing as she began to sprinkle cheese onto the pizza. "Yeah. Then again, I'm guessing there are a lot of touchy subjects in Dante's life."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you reviewing last chapter. Please tell me what you think of this chapter; I think you're going to like it.

The sound of curtains being opened, the sound of metal roughly sliding against metal. It's not the sound one wants to wake up to, nor is it the sound that means good things are going to happen. It's means someone is in a bad mood and wants to talk to you.

Dante cracked open his blue eyes, a hand instantly flying up to block out the blinding sun spilling through the window. He blinked a few times before letting his hand drop back to the side. Sitting at his desk, feet resting on said desk, it definitely appeared he'd missed the bed again the night before. Then, could you blame him? Returning from a mission, tired, sore, and bleeding didn't usually equate to 'I'm going to hall myself up fourteen stairs and down a hallway to get into bed when I sleep in my chair all the time.'

"I see you're as lazy as ever," came the snippy voice of one woman he knew all too well. Lady. One blue eye, one red eye, a scar across the bridge of her nose, and one of the best racks he'd ever seen. Yup, Lady, with hers guns and rocket launcher was standing in his office with a face of amusement and disgust. Classic Lady.

"Well of course," he joked. "What can I say besides the fact I beat back the minions of hell and I just wanted to sleep?"

She snorted, crossing her arms across her chest. "Of course. Then again, there is lumpy couch just a few steps away. I call that lazy."

Dante tossed his arms up in the air, a smile spreading across his lips. Lady smiled to, closing her eyes as one eyebrow twitched. Opening them again, she approached Dante's desk as he stood, stretching out his arms and patting the sleeves of his red coat.

"So, what'd you need?" he asked as he pulled the jacket off and gave it a glance over, looking for signs of damage. Lady peered around him to see the same. A little damage, nothing not fixable. Dante glanced back at her, finding her now sitting on his desk, hunched over as she fiddled with one of her guns. He sighed and shook his head.

The gun needed some polishing she noted, as she thought of how to phrase what she needed to say in a way that would irritate the half-devil the most. "You know the mission last night? Well, I got a call this morning from our employers and they bitched me out for half an hour straight, to the point where they weren't even speaking English anymore. What I did catch though was something about fallen trees, broken, blood everywhere, and a barn that needs about twenty-thousand in repairs. It should go without saying that payment will not be headed our way."

Behind Lady, Dante hissed, his fist slamming again the desk. "Damn it." She heard his boots clunking against the wood floors as he paced. "Not my damn fault that they built a barn on top of a hell gate. Isn't that illegal? I did my job, I deserve to be paid." He stomped over to the desk and grabbed the phone, placing against his ear as he dialed the number of their former contractor.

Lady waited patiently as she heard the high-pitched squabbling on the other end of the phone. Watching Dante's face slowly fall was humorous, to say the least, and the few words of explanation he tried to get in nearly made the woman burst with laughter. Sure, she was pissed she was out the money, but watching Dante get his ego stomped on was worth it in that moment (though it wouldn't be when it came time to pay the bills that month).

Dante set the phone down finally, gulping as he collapsed into his chair, one hand resting across his brow. Now that was the appearance of a defeated man if Lady had ever seen one.

* * *

Suffocatingly black, darkness all around. Cold fingers of nothingness, despair, dread. Emotions, gloomy ones, ones that break and mangle. A snap of the neck, a break of a bone, a tug on the skin, a rip of the hair. One plucked eye, nail-less toes, scraped and bloodied. Horror like these are hard to describe. Not because the words don't exist for these horrors, but because the mind doesn't want to give words to these horrors. Acknowledging they're real, acknowledging that they can, that is what happens when you put words to these horrors.

Blue eyes open into the darkness, and the skin is healed, perfection returned. A tilt of the head, the solid line of thin lips. Eyes blink slowly, as if trying to see something in nothing. White hair falls around the face, framing, tickling.

Crows descend, with beaks smeared in red, beady eyes glimmering with joy. The man tilts his head again and glances at the birds, listening to the flap-flap of their wings. Caw, Caw, they cry, voices shrill, hurting sensitive ears. The torture starts again.

He would fight back if he could. Even without weapons, sword, guns, he'd use hand and tooth, foot and nail to fight back. He is suspended though, held by invisible chains in darkness. Paralyzed is what he is. A silent, unmoving prisoner of the darkness. The blinks of the eyes, the tilts of the head, the quirks of the mouth, those were the only movements allowed.

There is ripping and tearing, flesh and blood. Crows feast, he closes his eyes and tilts his head back, fangs digging into the soft skin of his lip. Yes it hurts, oh god it hurts. But the pain… how many days, years, has he suffered it? At one point tolerance must be built, and numbness must set in. Eventually the torture becomes a humdrum. So the crows feast, they disappear, and all is whole again. Repeat on end, 'til eternity and beyond.

Change. No beast descends, no sword flying down into his gut. He tilts his head, waiting and anticipating. But it doesn't come. A signal sent, and a finger twitches. The gaze is now locked on the finger, the hand, as he moves it, waves it in front of his face. He snorts, and lets the hand drift down. Wherever, whoever, this torture comes from is just bored. They want a fight, panic. Feh.

"No, you're free," comes a voice, feminine, small.

No figure appears though, though he looks, lets his blue eyes dart around the darkness. But as he gazes, searches, the darkness changes. It fades, it morphs before his very eyes, into green and ground. A solid umph escapes his lips as the feeling of the earth beneath his palms and knees startles. Reality, feeling, being.

How?

Torture. This is still torture, he reminds himself. They're playing with you, with you head and with you heart. Harden, become ice. But the warnings are meaningless. The laughter he dreads never comes, and the feeling of belatedness never dissipates despites his warring on it. This, this means he's alive. It has to. What else is feeling, warmth, these things he always hated? This is life, not death. Death is cold, nothing, merciless. Not this. This is not that.

He stands tall. It's bright, he notices. Very bright. The sun, he guesses, assures himself. Not fire, hell fire. Air brushes against his pale skin, ruckus fills his ears. His white hair tickles his cheek and he shifts his head. Remember. There is something to remember.

He stands in the middle of the unknown field, donning brown leather boots, jeans, a black ribbed tank-top, and a blue trench coat, embroidered blazingly with yellow. The feeling of cloth against his skin. It's strange, foreign. It's good and it's bad.

Then he remembers. It's a flood, the rush of memories. It hurts so bad as it all comes back. He grips his head between two glove hands, as a flash plays across his mind. Childhood, mother, father, brother. Death, not his. Darkness, not the one before. Running, fighting, crying. Swearing to himself strength, searching, seeking. Pride, envy, wrath, greed, vanity. More fighting. Realization, a happy one yet not. It's a chaotic mess in his mind.

He remembers stone, risen by blood and family. His blood, his families blood, his guide's daughter's blood. A book, a seal, a fall, a rise, and a fight. Another fight, another fall. Falling, and falling, and falling. It seemed that was what he was good at if his memories served correct.

Brokenness, puppetry, losing one's self. He done that, been there. Lost himself to an enemy, become a puppet, and then broke. The soul broke, then the body did, and then there was death. After all that, death was a welcome sight. A woman with warm arms and beckoning words was what death was, and he followed happily to her.

He was on his knees now, head held low, face scrunched in agony, lips twist in pain, eyes shut with misery. There was so much more than the first flash of words, minute details the embodied and emboldened the pain he'd forgotten. Why remember, why live? The questions hung in his head and the memories made themselves at home.

Why live? That was a good question. Why had death expelled him? Had hell had enough of it's fun? Why not just end the conscience, put out the sparks? Why return it? Who would want what even death would not want?

It was hard to stand, legs weak, shaking. Useless, he thought. Weak, he taunted. What happened to you, said the words in the back of his mind. Those words, they were him. The real him, the true him. So he responded. He said I died, that's what happened. Now I just have to get back on my feet. With those words, he took steps, small, then large, then fast.

So the voice in the back of his head responded as he rushed through the wind, to somewhere, wherever. And it said:  _Good Vergil._

 


	4. Chapter 4

As Vergil dashed away from where he took his first breath in this life, he found a corpse.

Vergil had seen a lot of corpses in his day. He had made many in fact. He didn’t like humans, and most certainly didn’t value them. Death didn’t change that. The people he killed, some he didn’t even know the name of . Others had begged him. He’d never cared. A heart? A beating organ vital to survival. Oh, the metaphorical heart? He didn’t have one.

This corpse was that of a women. Pale skin, deathly so but then of course it was deathly so. She had brown hair the framed her almost blue face. Her eyes glazed over, green, staring to heaven. Her cause of death was obvious. It was a wolf or some other wild canine animal. The teeth markings, the scratches, the exposed bone. She’d been some lucky animals meal. That meal had been a while ago though. She stunk to high heaven, and flies buzzed around her innards.

Vergil sneered in disgust. He might’ve been in shock when he first touched earth again, not rejoicing as he should have, but he wasn’t shock anymore. He was Vergil again, cold and cruelly rational. The poor girl, one might’ve said. The fool, he said. Her poor family, one might’ve said. The humans that raised this fool, he said.

He walked past the body. He was honorable to some extent. He had his code of values, but those values revolved around his life as a warrior, a demon. A human he was not, at least in that metaphorical heart. Bury a body? A waste of time. Say a prayer? A waste of breath. Acknowledge the dead? A waste of life.

He walked on. Boots crunched blades of green grass, and twigs snapped beneath his feet. The place he was in could be called beautiful, but besides the body, it was devoid of civilization. So he walked on. He wanted to know, no, needed to know just how long it had been. How old was he now? What had happened since the eve of Temen-Ni-Gru? Had they finally invented flying cars?

It a took a night and half a day to find a small town, but he found it. The sign on the outskirts read Aelbourne. Wood and stone appeared to be the foundations of the town. People frolicked on the streets, wearing clothing of modern ages, but acting the same as their counterparts five-hundred years ago. Humans. They didn’t change much, and when they did, the bonus was debatable.

He stepped into a tavern (for that was literally what it was named, Tavern) and allowed his senses to be assaulted and molested. Drunken laughter, slurred words. Foul odors of all sorts drifted to him, bad breath, onions, infections, body odors. He didn’t miss that while he was dead, the colorful array of smells human created. Men sat with their pints and their mugs, foamy slosh just about everywhere. Servers dashed to and fro with plates and pints, faces contorted in distress. He stopped one server to ask the date and received both the date, and a glare.

He did the math. Twelve years. He was thirty one. He’d risen Temen-Ni-Gru when he was nineteen. He frowned as he took a seat at a secluded table tucked away in a corner with the cobwebs. It seemed human and pathetic to him to be saddened by this knowledge. Valuing everyday was the action of human with their short lifespans. Twelve years though, it was a long time. Had he not been dead all that time, the amount of power he could have amassed was unthinkable.

“So,” said a server with fake cheeriness. “My name’s Samantha. What can I get you?”

“What wines do you have?” he asked. He was not a drinker, but he knew if you will take the space in a restaurant, you’ll will order something. Mother had… She’d been a server for a quite a few years. She instilled it in the brothers.

“Our house red and white wines. Personally I prefer the white, but eh…” she shrugged her shoulders as she smiled at him.

“I’ll have the red wine,” he stated. She nodded and trotted off a he traced patterns in the grain of the table.

Realizing himself alive? That was a shock. Finding a rotting corpse? That was not. Realizing it had been twelve years, and he was now thirty-one? It was a shock too, despite how he wanted it not to be. _So, you died_ , he said to himself. _Death keeps no track of time. Thirty-one is nothing. What if had been forty years? You would’ve been fifty-nine. Be happy. You’re alive. Power can once more be yours. If you mope though, might as well take a part-time job at your brothers shop._

Closed eyes rapidly opened. Dante. He remembered him. Just… He bit his lip. Dante had killed him. Whatever. There was nothing to be upset over. A foe is a foe, and one defeats their foes. Dante had just done what was right. Anyways, it was better than remaining a puppet to a fallen master. Anything was better than that.

He gripped his head between his hands. God. No. Why the hell was he feeling emotion? These thoughts, they weren’t him. They were weak, human. They were disgusting thoughts. He snorted as he glanced around. Of course they were human, the things around him were human. He just had to get away. He’d never been one for crowds, after all.

When the waitress returned with a bottle of red win, she found an empty table. Even the cobwebs weren’t disturbed.

* * *

 

Right now he was in shock. Humans weren’t good for him right now. He needed to accept he was alive, fully realize and comprehend that. Then he could walk among the ants. Then he could get Yamato.

He sighed.

Yamato. The word sounded so right to him, and instantly his hand clenched at his side. It felt wrong not to have the blade in his hand. Since father had given it to him, it had always been with him, never leaving his side. Vergil hadn’t even ever slept without the blade. Here was though, vulnerable and a wreck, and without his blade. Once he calmed down, rationalized this whole ordeal, he would take back his sword and then all would be right.

For now though, he needed to think so into the darkness he went once more.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this isn't the most exciting of chapters. It was all I could think of for the prompt Break.

Death was near, looming imminently. It was real, permanent. Of course if it was real and permanent, than that mean who was looming near was not Vergil. No, death and Vergil seemed to have some strange relationship no other man had with the reaper. No, this death loomed in the past, over a character we've already met.

Nero.

Pinned against the wall with swords, one shoved through his chest. Blood dripped from his mouth, a sneer twisting his lips as he pretended not to hear the sinister laugh of the end. Sterilizers filled his nose, a foul smell. The ramblings of a mad man reached his ears. He didn't listen though. Just pretended what was here was not.

But then he saw her. Kind and gentle. Auburn hair, bright eyes. A voice so magical. Kyrie. Her tickling laughter calming him. Then there was anger and determination. No. Death would take him screaming and kicking if he had to leave the kind Kyrie.

A broken sword floated suspended in air. It was a katana, a cool steel blade, a white leather handle. The pieces floated near each other, but never touch. Nero's hand was glowing though, and the blades responded. The blades touched and flew to Nero's hand, as good as new.

This blade in this story is one we've already heard the name of. Yamato.

Yamato had always been an interesting blade. It was a blade yes, the best one could dream of. But it was also not a blade. It was a key, a key to open the portal between the worlds. In the wrong hands, hell could be unleashed on earth, and earth unleashed into hell (though of course the former was more of a concern than the latter was; the latter was laugh-worthy). In the wrong hands, Yamato was the most dangerous of weapons. In the right hands, Yamato was a weapon that could save the entire world.

Nero's hands were an example of the right hands.

Vergil's hands were an example of the wrong hands.

The blade came into creation by the hands of Sparda himself. The key had existed long before then, but in an attempt to hide it from those who wished to rule the human world, he crafted it into his third blade. He wielded it well, but soon its secrets were revealed and all were after it.

When it came to passing down the swords, he originally intended to give both Rebellion and Yamato to Dante. Both boys were talented swordsman at their age, and Dante seemed to be the more responsible one (also known as the one he trusted not to turn down a dark path). When he was handing Dante Rebellion, about to give him Yamato, he thought again though. Vergil… he was strong, he was rational. Sure, he was a bit cold, but he was a good son too. So he called Vergil and handed the blade to Vergil.

Of course had Sparda known what would happen, he wouldn't have changed his mind. That topic has already been covered though.

How did it end up in Fortuna though? Broken, seemingly irreparable? Quite simply, the blade was broken during his fight with Mundus, and Mundus saw no need of it. Keys like Yamato were for the weak alone.

A demon happened upon it. A middle-class demon, one could say, not one of the weak, mindless hoards but not a demon who might've stood a chance in vying for the crown of the underworld. This demon happened upon it, feeling an immense power drifting from the sword, and took the broken pieces with him. Even this demon was unable to fix it.

The Order eventually happened upon the demon in searching for Yamato. The demon was killed, worthless to Agnus, and Yamato was taken back to Fortuna to be restored. Agnus had spent many wakeful nights attempting every right and ritual he could to heal the sword but it didn't work. His shock when Nero mended it with ease melded with hatred from his own failures.

Continuing this story is pointless. You know the tale already. Nero inherits the sword, Dante lets him keep it, and he uses it to protect Fortuna and destroy the Order.


	6. Chapter 6

The guns in his hands were cold against his sticky, heated palms. Two lips were parted, showing fatigue as air escaped him. White hair hung around his face, blue eyes glimmered, and a red coat flapped in the wind.

"Son of Sparda…" called the demon. He snorted as his guns went bang.

He never understood it. Yeah, his father was Sparda but did they always have to call him son of Sparda? Didn't they realize he had a name?

"Sorry, I'm Dante," he taunted, slipping his guns away and pulling Rebellion out.

His name was Dante, yet for some damn reason they always just knew him as the son of Sparda. Even if they knew his name, they still called him son of Sparda. Yeah, he was the son of Sparda but that was not all he was. He was Dante, he was a thirty-one year old bachelor who owned his business of demon slaying, the pseudo-father to a blonde ten-year old, and a regular at Freddi's Pizzeria and Sundae Bar. He was a whole lot more than just the son of Sparda. Couldn't they call him the Pizza Man at least?

"Son of Sparda…" said the demon as it swung one of its arms. Of course Dante dodged perfectly.

Sparda. All the demons hated him, there were humans that worshipped him, and to Dante, he was just a fading memory. It was a good memory, but it was also a bad one. His mother died when his father was gone, gone for months by the point. Abandoned was the term he used for his relationship with his father.

Bang bang. He flipped in air as a glob of spit landed where he once, a sneer of disgust marring his face. God, sometimes demons could be disgusting.

He had fond memories of his mother Eva though. She had always been so kind. Even after he and Vergil had had a fight, she still kept a smile on her lips as she scolded them. Frankly, any woman was an angel if they could deal with his brother with a smile

"Go to hell!" yelled Dante as he brought Rebellion down on the demon's head. Blood spewed everywhere as the demon gave a final gurgled scream before dust exploded and floated through the air. Dante shook his head.

If there was a heaven, he hoped his mother had gone to heaven. He hoped his father went there too, if only to make his mother the happier. She deserved it. So did his dad, even if he stilled resented the man for not having been there to save his mother.

"Good job," said Lady as she leaned against a tree, her finger holding onto the strap of Kalina Ann. He nodded his head.

Yeah, if there was a heaven, he hoped his parents were there.


	7. Chapter 7

Guns were the weapons of fools. No, not fools. They were functional weapons, but weak. No, guns were the weapons of weaklings. Anyway one saw it, his brother fit the description and what do you know, he used two guns.

The guns had been made for the both of the boys. As Sparda had said, "Protection is what I wish to give them, and if I cannot give it, then they can themselves." Ivory had been made for Vergil, Ebony for Dante. The moment Sparda showed the guns to them, the differences in them were made even clearer. Dante was excited, Vergil walked away immediately. Even as a child, he saw it as a fool's weapon, a weaklings weapon. The thought process was different. Back then, the child thought this because his father didn't use them and his father was neither a fool or a weakling. Now Vergil just saw them for what they were, foolish and weak. Perhaps his views would not be so had he known the truth, that his father had two known as Luce and Ombra but that was neither here nor now.

Dante, of course, did not see this. That was why Vergil was watching as his brother took a small-ranking demon with the twin pistols.

The realization that this was real, not some torture of the mind, was a difficult one to make. Cynicism made it near impossible, but as the days passed and nothing happened to prove him wrong, he accepted it. He was alive, breathing and with a heartbeat. It was good to accept that, that meant he would put to use this new found life, something him found himself eager to do.

He could already feel the sword in his hand. It would feel so right, so natural. The sound of the blade hissing against the scabbard as he pulled it out sounded in his ears. In his mind, he could already see a demon paused mid-air, before the cuts made themselves clear and the pieces fell to the floor. Oh it would be glorious, magnificent. Vergil would be alive and whole. Death would never be guessed, it would be easy to forget.

Vergil shook his head as Dante put away his pistols, smirking like he'd just beaten the devil himself. The red twin was a fool. He let human emotions rule his being, love and triumph, sadness and envy. Sure, Vergil had emotions too but he knew how to control them, and how to make them disappear. It was a skill Dante lacked, which made him far too weak.

A woman stood behind him. Vergil sneered. No, not a woman, a shell, a toy, a fake. Blonde hair, blue eyes. She was a creation of Mundus, a device with which to torture and break. Not him, broken was he already by the point. No, it was the other son of Sparda she was meant to break. Here she was though, joking with him like her purpose had never been.

That was emotion. What was the word… nostalgia. His judgment was clouded by what he saw, ignoring whatever small part of him that was rational.

When he'd first seen the replica, he hadn't recognized her. His enslavement was still new, his mind blank. "This is Trish. She will help us destroy Dante." Some demons bowed to the blonde woman, Nelo Angelo instead nodded his head before meeting Trish's eyes. She had cocked her head, as if she had expected something of him. Others were watching him too, Mundus even. At the time he hadn't known why, but it was quite obvious now why they had watched him so intently. It disgusted him. They were waiting for him to be weak, to be sentimental. They were waiting on the wrong brother.

"Trish, why the hell are you having me take out small fry like this?" Dante said, arms outstretched. The blonde demon flicked her hair.

"I don't want to deal with weaklings like this," she said with a shrug. "Anyways, I promise you that I'll help you when we get to the nest."

Dante tilted his head, eyes narrowed. "As if I'm going to need your help. The only reason you're here is so you can claim you did the work and get the pay."

She winked at him. "If you know what I'm doing then why are you here? Last time I checked you only slay demons when you can get paid. Wait.." She shook her head. "You aren't expecting me to give you a cut, are you? 'Cause I'm not."

"Feh."

Vergil watched as the two walked on, heading towards the demon's nest. His lips were pursed as he watched them. Dante was a fool as always, being too kind. If Vergil was in his position (which he never would be, situations like that were easily avoided for all but the most foolish of fools), he would not being doing something he would get nothing out of. Then again, what else would he expect of Dante?

* * *

Dante was away once more, demon hunting, making money that would go to pizza and debts. Vergil for once, wasn't watching his twin. The task had been tedious to begin with. Watching his own flesh and blood making a complete fool of himself was just cringe-worthy. He had watched though, waiting for the moment when he would wield Yamato. He'd wielded other devil arms in that time period, but never Yamato. Vergil had decided it was time to take finding his sword into his own hands.

Dante's office stunk. It was as if a dog had taken a shit in each corner and no one had bothered to clean it up, despite it being the middle of summer and ninety degrees inside and out.

It was also dirty. Cobwebs hung on windows and off the ceiling. Clothing tossed everywhere, across a couch, on a pool table, on the floor. He was surprised that his twin got any business with this mess. Had Vergil been a potential customer, he would've decided that he would find another devil hunter who could at least keep his office clean.

Vergil's boots clunked against the floor, and the floor squeaked beneath his weight. The building was quite old, the walls made of cement that remained unpainted. It was a dump to say the least. Vergil was eager to find Yamato and get out. Habitats like this one were not his cup of tea.

Devil arms were lined against the wall, but none were his Yamato. Some were guns, some were swords, and there were even a few he didn't have a name for. None were Yamato though, so he continued to look. He opened a door and ascended a flight of creaky stairs into an even dirtier living room. How that was possible was beyond him, and how was it livable was just as ponderable, but he shook his head and attempted to ignore the mess.

He found a closet with an even larger stash of devil arms. Picking through them did not end in delight with him finding the sword he so prized. Dante didn't have it. His lips twisted down in anger. Of course. He'd wasted a month watching his brother make of fool of himself for nothing. Vergil grabbed one of the devil arms and walked back into the living room.

Filthy.

He walked past the mess though, back to the door. He walked away from the mess, away from his brother's home, right past Dante.

"Vergil…"

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suck at fight scenes. Sorry.

It took digging. It took holding a sword to a demon's neck who gave him a name of another demon, which had him take out a nest to get another name, which led him to a library and a book, which led him half way across the world just to get the name of a town: Fortuna.

He was familiar with that name. How could he not be? He was a son of Sparda, and the people of Fortuna worshipped Sparda. He'd been there before. It was nice. There was a certain element that just had him rolling his shoulders as he stood in their cathedral, head tilted back as he stared into the stone of the statue of his father. At least though it wasn't like going to Khimik in the dead of Russian winter, wearing a tank-top and a blue trench coat.

Fortuna was as he last visited. The people wore outdated clothing as they hawked goods in the market place, presumably doing the same thing they had been doing two-hundred years prior. The fountain still ran in the middle of town, the cathedral still glimmered even from his hideout in Fortuna castle. The hell gate though, was no longer there. According to what the demon who had told him to go here, a plot had been afoot, though remedied by Dante and a boy named Nero, who many believed to also share the blood of Sparda.

Turning a blade over in his hand, his head tilted, Vergil pursed his lips.

Nero. The Nero he knew was from history books: Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus. He sort of felt bad for the boy, what a terrible legacy to his name. He'd never heard of this Nero boy, but from what he had heard since his discovery he was only twenty or so. He had a devil arm,  _literally_ , and had been the leader behind the rebuilding of Fortuna, despite his own non-religious status.

He'd seen Nero since his arrival, saw Nero fighting demons in fact, got to see the devil arm and his sword in action. Yes, this Nero boy was exactly who was looking for. He wielded Yamato.

Vergil was not quite pleased with the fact that this child with no solid relation to him wielded his sword. Vergil most certainly pondered what had been going on in Dante's head, but then he often pondered that.

As for the rumor that Nero shared Sparda's blood… He could believe it. White hair, blue eyes. Those did seem to be the characteristics of Sparda's off-spring, though admittedly there was really only one to go off of since the true sons were identical. Whether Nero was a son, or something else, Vergil had no idea or opinion towards. Had he and Dante been older, Vergil would not have been surprised if the boy was his bastard nephew. Dante would be too young though for that.

Now, a single question loomed over Vergil. Why had he not attacked yet? It was not the time, was the simple answer. The opportunity had merely not arisen at that point.

* * *

"One of the guards reported a light on in Fortuna Castle," said a knight clothed in white as he bowed to Nero. "As you have ordered, he did not go inside to see what was happening. We await your decision though."

After the Savior incident, some people had gone inside Fortuna castle for some reason, and died. Agnus' experiments still roamed the halls. Nero had dealt with a lot since then, but every few months or so Nero went back and found even more. It was irritating, but expected.

"Thank you. I'll deal with it," said the new captain of the Order of the Sword who grabbed his blade Red Queen and gun Blue Rose, and set off.

* * *

Fortuna Castle was eerie, though as Vergil stood on the chandelier, listening to Nero swear worse than a sailor, he was certain the boy would have a less tasteful word to describe the castle. Understandable. Abandoned, dark, hanging cobwebs, it wasn't the picturesque palace. The queen of England certainly wouldn't live here. Was there a queen of England still? He would research that when he got the chance.

Vergil watched the boy as he peaked around doorways, looking for demons, a sword more in line with Dante's Rebellion than his Yamato on his back. He also saw the pistol tucked into his belt and sighed. Of course the one wielding his blade, wielded it alongside one of the most dreadful of weapons. Was this irony? It seemed like irony.

"Why the hell am I in the hellhole," Nero hissed as he peaked into another room. Vergil sighed. Impatient too. That was unbefitting of one who wielded his own weapon, a tasteless quality best left to filth like his brother. He supposed though that if he waited any longer, the opportunity would leave along with the boy, so with a hmph, the blue twin landed on the floor, uncaring towards the hard thump of his landing.

Nero spun on his heel, his sword raised defensively. Blue eyes narrowed at the blue twin as he tried to decipher what he was staring at.

Had Dante not informed him that he had a twin?

"What the hell do you want?" asked the boy as he lowered the sword, tugging at the collar of his jean trench coat.

"I want Yamato," he frankly said. Not that meant anything. A fight would ensue, rational only ordered so.

"Why don't you ask for it nicely?" taunted the boy as he smirked, lifting his other sword in preparation.

Vergil took into his hand Alastor, a small smirk on his lips as his hands wrapped around the hilt. On the other end of the hallway, Nero rolled his shoulders before charging at him, boots clunking against the marble flooring. Vergil pulled Alastor into a sideways hold, one foot sliding behind him as he awaited Nero's blow.

Clang.

Metal slid against metal as Vergil pushed the heavy Red Queen off Alastor. He swung out at Nero, which the boy in turn narrowly dodged by sucking in his stomach and pulling back onto his heals.

Clang.

The blades met once more, this time Alastor on top as Vergil bore down on the young slayer. A frown marred the boy's face as a smirk lit Vergil's. The boy attempted to kick him in the gut, but Vergil dodged, flipping backwards. Vergil's feet barely touched the floor before Nero's Devil Bringer wrapped around his leg. Blue eyes widened in surprise as he was tugged towards his opponent. Devil Bringer still wrapped firmly around Vergil's leg, Nero pulled out Blue Rose and let off three shots.

Bang, bang, bang!

"Guns are such crude weapons," commented Vergil as the bullets hit Alastor before falling to the floor with little clicks. "They are the weapons of weaklings," he said, before Alastor came down on the demonic force around Vergil's leg, freeing himself.

Nero cursed.

"Yeah, well…" Nero paused as he shot off two more bullets. "I don't see you doing any better," he finished with a tilt of his head upwards.

"That is a poor comeback."

Vergil charged towards Nero, Alastor raised. The blade clanged against the floor, Nero having rolled to the side. Two more bullets were shot off.

"Haven't you realized that is a useless weapon," Vergil said before kicking the gun out of kneeling Nero's hand. The kid cursed again. "I hope you didn't learn those from my brother. His mouth is quite foul, but to think he passed it on to the children."

Nero's blue eyes widened. Brother…

Vergil swung Alastor down on Nero's devil arm as he cried out in pain.

"I want Yamato. Return it to me." The blade was embedded in the hard flesh of the devil arm, though not deep, and one boot-clad foot stepped down like steel on the arm. "I am prepared to hack your arm off if you don't."

The boy cried out, eyes clenched shut. "Fine…" he hissed as his devil arm began to glow. The glow dissipated and in his fist was Yamato. Vergil smirked.

That was not the end though. Vergil found himself flying backwards in an explosion of blue light. Like a cat, he landed swiftly on his feet, a frown replacing his former smirk.

Nero was the one wearing the smirk this time. In his hand, Yamato, and behind a looming blue spectral that rose the hairs on the back of Vergil's neck. It looked… he could hardly bring himself to say the name, but it looked like him as Nelo Angelo. This was… unexpected.

The boy charged at him, red eyes blazing like flames as the katana whistled through the air. Nero brought the blade down on the marble floor, cracks forming like spider webs. Vergil landed a few feet away, blue eyes wide as the boy attacked against. This time the blade came down on his shoulder.

This wasn't happening. The boy had been a weakling, and easy fight and an easy win. The arm was the only challenge, or, at least that's how it appeared. One hand held against his bleeding shoulder, he studied the boy. Vergil had underestimated him. That didn't matter that much, he was still weaker than Vergil ever was.

Nero came at him against, slashing at him like a madmen. Vergil held Alastor up, blocking the barrage of offense. Blue eyes met red ones, and in them, Vergil could see the fury of a rabid dog. A  _tiring_ , rabid dog.

The boy fell to his knees moments later, the blue spirit vanishing. Yamato slid from his glowing fingertips, a clang sounding as the blade hit the marble floor. Vergil watched for a moment as he panted.

"You were more interesting than I originally thought," Vergil stated, bending down and grabbing Yamato.


End file.
